Page:The Revolt of the Angels v2.djvu/330



AURICE D’ESPARVIEU passed a terrible night. At the least sound he seized his revolver that he might not fall alive into the hands of justice. When morning came he snatched the newspapers from the hands of the concierge, devoured them greedily, and gave a cry of joy; he had just read that Inspector Grolle having been taken to the Morgue for the postmortem, the police-surgeons had only discovered bruises and contusions of a very superficial nature, and stated that death had been brought about by the rupture of an aneurism of the aorta.

“You see, Arcade,” he exclaimed triumphantly; “you see I am not an assassin. I am innocent. I could never have imagined how extremely agreeable it is to be innocent.”

Then he grew thoughtful, and—no unusual phenomenon—reflection dissipated his gaiety.